by Davis, L. G.
“Baby, please.” Travis shakes his head. Tears are streaming down his face now. “I love you. Don’t destroy what we have. We’re expecting a baby. It’s ours, Marcia.” He takes a step toward her, then changes his mind.
“That’s not my child.” Her voice is deep and dark. “I only went along with the surrogacy thing because I thought if I gave you what you want, you’d stop your cheating. But you’re incapable of keeping it in your pants.”
“Don’t say that. I never cheated on you. I’ll never do that to us.”
“You know what hurts the most?” Marcia continues. “It hurts my feelings that you think I’m stupid.” She pulls out another batch of photos from her pocket and throws them at his feet. “Pictures don’t lie, Travis.”
Travis bends down and picks one of them up, but it slips from his fingers and flutters back down.
“That’s right, Travis. I hired someone to watch you. I know all about the women you betrayed me with.”
I inhale sharply. “I should go.” I head for the door, but Marcia shoots out a hand and sends it crashing hard into my chest, stopping me in my tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I fill my lungs with the air I lost from her blow. “This has nothing to do with me, Marcia.”
“You should have thought about that before having an affair with my husband.”
Thirty-Three
I reel back, deeper into the studio as if Marcia has slapped me across the face.
“What?” I can barely form the words. “What are you talking about?”
Marcia rolls her eyes. “You really thought I didn’t know? When this whole thing started, I thought I liked you. You fooled me into believing that I could be a mother, even to a child who doesn’t share my DNA. When Travis invited you to stay, my instincts told me it was a bad idea, but I ignored them. Then I caught him watching you.”
Realization sweeps through me like a tidal wave. All this time when I thought both of them were watching me, it was actually Marcia watching her husband watching me. I can’t believe she thinks we’re having an affair.
“Marcia, you’re mistaken. Nothing ever happened between me and Travis. I can promise you that.”
“She’s right,” Travis manages. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Paranoid?” she scoffs. “Then why? Why would you have photos of her face? Why would you hide them in the shed?”
“I told you. I just—”
“Don’t,” she warns, nostrils flaring. “Don’t you dare lie to me again! From the moment she arrived in this house, you couldn’t keep your hands off her.” Her eyes pin me down again, then she wipes a hand across her forehead. “I kept telling myself that maybe I was imagining things. Then I caught you together that night when you pretended to have a nightmare.”
I stiffen in shock. Travis is right. She’s clearly paranoid. I have no idea what he did with those other women, but how can she even think I had an affair with her husband? What kind of person does she think I am?
“I never asked your husband to come to my room that night. I woke up and there he was.”
“That’s not how it looked to me. From what I recall, you were quite cozy together.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Travis says, his voice raw with emotion.
“I wasn’t the only one who knew something was going on, you know. Beatrice did too. That’s why she’s not here, isn’t it, Travis?” She glares at her husband. “That’s why she’s dead. You didn’t want her to get in the way of your plans. After the baby was born, you planned on waiting a year before leaving me and cashing in. Beatrice heard you talking to someone on the phone, telling them everything.”
My eyes go to Travis, searching for a reaction. He’s now standing slumped against the doorframe. His wife’s words have clearly struck a chord.
Marcia puts a hand on his cheek. “I know what you did to Beatrice. I saw everything.” She drops her hand again. “I could have gone to the police, but then you wouldn’t have been here to witness this little surprise.”
Terrified of what Marcia might be capable of, I try to push past her again. This time, she shoves me back with both hands.
“I said you’re not going anywhere.” Her teeth are bared, and her eyes are like ice. “After discovering that the two of you betrayed me, I could have ended it all, called off the entire deal. But I came up with a brilliant idea.” A grin splits her face. “I wanted to watch the baby grow inside you, to see Travis getting excited about being a father and getting all the perks that came with it. I got him involved in everything. I talked about the baby constantly.” She pauses. “You must be curious about how the story ends.”
“This is ridiculous.” Travis pushes himself away from the doorframe. “I won’t listen to this nonsense.” He starts to stumble away like a drunk.
“Then I’ll make you.” Fear tears through me when I watch the silver pistol emerge from Marcia’s pocket only seconds before a bang disturbs the brief silence.
I’m instantly transported back to the night Peter killed himself.
When Travis cries out and falls to his knees, my body starts to shake, my teeth chattering.
“Ready to listen now?” Marcia asks, dropping the gun back into the pocket, and turning back to me like she hasn’t shot her husband in the leg.
“What do you want?” I ask her, my nails digging into my palms as I try to gain control of the situation. “Do you want to hurt me and an innocent baby?”
“I enjoy surprising people, Grace. You have to wait until I reveal the next surprise.”
“Stop,” Travis pleads with her. “Don’t do it.”
“Why not?” Marcia asks. “I begged you to stop lying to me. To stop hurting me. But you kept right on going.”
As Travis curls up in the dirt, grabbing his leg, trying to stop the bleeding, Marcia reaches for a metal chair and drops into it. “Grace, let’s talk about surprises. I gave you so many of them since you arrived, and this entire time you thought it was my mother—exactly what I wanted you to think.”
“It… It was you?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“Mostly. That night you found your bathwater red, I couldn’t be in two places at one time, so I asked for a little help. Since Beatrice knew about my little plan, she was the best candidate for the job.”
The missing pieces of the puzzle start sliding into place. At the dinner table, the night I found my bathwater colored, Beatrice had whispered something into Marcia’s ear before leaving the house through the kitchen back door. She must have gone to the cottage to carry out Marcia’s orders.
Marcia had cried at the photo shoot because she thought I was having an affair with her husband. The reason for the dark, unflattering clothes she bought me was so I wouldn’t stand out for her husband to pay me attention. She must have let Marigold into the guesthouse the day she came to pour oil on the kitchen floor.
It all makes sense.
As I continue to watch the stranger in front of me, heat flushes up my neck and my eyes grow hot. “How could you, Marcia? How sick are you?”
“I just wanted to terrify you a little, maybe cause a panic attack, like the kind you experienced after your brother-in-law shot himself in your driveway.”
Blood drains from my face. “How do you—”
“You think I’d let a stranger into my home without doing my research?” She taps her forefinger against her lips. “I was suspicious from the moment you made me that offer. I thought there had to be something wrong with a woman who would give a stranger a baby without any compensation. It had to be someone who was mentally unstable. Turns out I was right. You tried so hard to hide it, but I knew.”
My knees grow weak, and I grab the nearby desk to stay upright. Marcia closes the gap between us and rests a hand on my back.
“It’s okay, Gracie,” she whispers into my ear. “Hang in there a little longer. It will all be over soon.” She sits back down and reaches into one of h
er pockets.
My body goes rigid.
This is it. She’s bringing out the gun again. She will kill us both. She’s convinced we had an affair. There’s no way I’ll be able to talk her out of it. She has gathered enough fake evidence to confirm her suspicions.
Instead of the gun, her hand comes out holding what looks like the three articles I saw in the shed earlier. Relief rushes through me, slumping my posture.
“Travis,” she says. “Have you ever stopped to wonder why your mistresses kept dropping dead like poisoned flies?”
Travis lifts his head a few inches from the ground, then grunts with pain and drops it again into the dirt.
“I have a little secret I want to share with you.”
Thirty-Four
Marcia tears the newspaper articles to shreds, sending the pieces falling to the floor like confetti. “I was done with watching you and your mistresses destroying our marriage.”
Shock cuts through me like a sharp blade. I want to speak, to defend myself, but I doubt anything will come from it.
In hindsight, she indirectly warned me about what was going to happen. She told me about those murdered women and “how dangerous it is out there”. All along, she was the one behind the murders.
“There’s only one more mistress left.” Marcia points at me. “I wanted to save the best for last. I never intended for that baby to be born in the first place. I wanted my husband to come as close as possible to getting what he wanted, then I planned on taking it all away.” She looks back at Travis. “Grace and the baby will die, and you will get to watch.”
While shock ricochets off the walls of my heart, Travis writhes on the ground, coughing instead of speaking. He tries to crawl away, but Marcia shoots him again. I’m not sure where. I scream as I watch him go limp. There’s blood everywhere.
Marcia killed three women. If I don’t do anything, the baby and I are next.
Travis can’t save me. No one can.
A lump forms in my throat as I watch her turn the gun over in her hand as if it were a harmless toy. If it were just me, I’d probably have given up and allowed fate to take its course, but I’m not alone. I cannot let her shoot an innocent baby.
Fear coils itself around my heart. Instead of weakening me, it sends adrenaline surging through my entire body, giving me surprising strength.
I scream as I lunge for her, knocking her off the chair as I reach for the gun in her hand. She’s too strong for me and drunk on the poison of revenge.
But I’m not ready to let go.
I never wanted to keep the baby, but I promised to protect it. If Marcia kills it, it will be my fault. I’m the one who started all of this.
I tighten my fingers around her small wrist and press my nails into her skin. She shrieks and curses, but doesn’t let go of the weapon. She soon disentangles herself from my grasp and scoots away.
Now the gun is pointed to my abdomen.
“I’m sorry it has to end this way,” she says. Her calm voice leaves me cold.
Having no choice but to give up, I close my eyes and wait for her to shoot.
I count to ten, waiting for the sound of a gunshot, the last sound I’ll hear before I die. Or will the bullet hit me before the sound rings out? Does it even matter?
Marcia curses and I open my eyes in time to see her bewildered face, red eyes bulging out of their sockets, cheeks smeared with tears and dark mascara. She must have only had two bullets, one for me and one for Travis. She never planned on using both on him.
This is my chance to end this madness. I say a silent prayer, grit my teeth, and fight for my life.
We both cry out when my punch lands in the center of her face. The pain spreads like ice from my knuckles, through my fingers, to the rest of my arm. With the help of my good hand, I get to my feet. So does Marcia.
“You’ll regret this.” She runs toward me and grabs me by the shoulders before shoving me into a shelf lined with painting supplies.
Brushes of various sizes, cans of paint, and easels clatter to the floor around me. I slide to the floor to join them, but I don’t stay down for long. There’s too much at stake. I get back on my hands and knees and crawl toward one leg of the table.
Marcia is moving around the room, probably looking for another weapon to strike me with. I need to get to my feet before she has a chance to knock me down again.
But it’s too late. Before I can take another swing at her, she runs to the door and slams it shut.
Panic wells up inside my throat at the sound of the key turning in the lock.
I’m trapped.
I smell the smoke before I see the fire.
A liquid is glistening on the floor next to the door, and the fire is lapping it up like a dehydrated animal.
Shivering with fear, I look around me at the cans and bottles that fell from the shelf when I went flying into it. As an artist, she knows there are enough flammable and even explosive chemicals in the studio to cause the entire place to explode.
She’s out there getting what she wants, forcing Travis, if he hasn’t bled out yet, to watch me and his baby die in the most gruesome way.
As the smoke thickens around me, I grab a rag and press it to my nose. I wish I had water to wet it with, but the mug on the table is empty. The same white, gold-rimmed mug that had disappeared from the guesthouse.
It no longer matters that this little mystery is solved. Getting out of here is my top priority.
I resume the search for a way out.
The window is identical to that of the shed, too small for someone, let alone a pregnant woman, to squeeze through.
There has to be another way.
Think, Grace. Think.
My gaze lands on the couch leaning against one wall of the studio. There’s a white knitted blanket draped over its back. Marcia probably throws it over her shoulders when she works late in cold weather.
My eyes burning from the thick smoke, I look back at the fire, watch it inching its way toward the door, blocking my way.
Behind the rag, I cough uncontrollably. I need to come up with a plan fast.
I could try to smother the flames, but they’re spreading so fast, I’d be in danger of getting burned sooner. And even without the fire, I won’t be able to get through a locked door, and I could end up dying from smoke poisoning.
Then it hits me.
As the flames lick the wooden door, I search the room for non-explosive flammable objects. On the coffee table is a large stack of magazines.
After everything Marcia confessed to, including digging into my life, I’m not surprised that most of them are Living It issues. She must have known that I used to work there. She knew everything about me.
I grab the magazines and send them flying in the direction of the flames framing the lower part of the door.
I’m coughing and wheezing, and tears are streaming down my cheeks, but quitting is out of the question. I can already imagine the fire searing through my skin and flesh.
The fire is now eating through the door.
I drop the cloth and grab the wooden chair Marcia was sitting on.
The heat of the fire warns me away, but I don’t get close enough for it to scorch me.
With all the strength I have left, I throw the chair at the door.
I’m not able to see enough through the smoke anymore, to see if it left a dent, so I throw something else at it. Another chair, the metal one this time, belonging to the garden furniture set near the river.
The fire is growing angry, engulfing both chairs.
I continue to throw objects at the rickety door until my hard work and the fire break it down. The wood is so old the fire easily burns through it, making a way for me.
What now?
Even though there’s a way out, the doorway is completely engulfed in flames. There’s no way I can make it through without getting burned.
But if I do nothing and remain in the studio, it’s only a matter of time before the fire reaches
something flammable and the place explodes.
Thinking fast, I glance at the couch again. One end is already burning up, the smell of the leather thick as it reaches my nose. I stumble toward it and snatch the blanket, shaking the flames off, stomping it with my feet until no sparks are left.
My chest is burning and my body is heating up. The baby gives me a sharp kick in the ribs.
Please hang in there, little one. I’ll get us out of here.
There’s only one way out for both of us. I need to get through the eye of the storm.
I drape the blanket over my head and most of my body, and before I can lose my courage, I run through the burning doorway, stumbling over the chairs.
I make it outside, but the blanket is on fire, so are my hair and clothes.
I could run to the river, but I won’t make it in time.
I’m screaming as I fall to the ground and roll, doing my best to stifle the flames. The strong sulfuric smell of my hair burns its way up my nostrils.
The only part of my body that’s not burning is the part covered by the bathrobe I’m still wearing. My feet are on fire. My hair is on fire. My hands are on fire.
I can’t shake it off, and I’m on the verge of giving up trying.
Something large falls on top of me, soft like a blanket. Then it feels as though someone is holding me in an embrace.
I hear my name. I don’t recognize the voice. Maybe it’s Marcia, finishing what she started. I’m too focused on the searing pain on my skin to even fight her off anymore.
Then my cover is lifted.
I only see her face for a few seconds before my eyes close.
Thirty-Five
Clayton walks through the door of my hospital room. He’s holding the third bouquet of flowers in as many days. He puts it on the windowsill next to the others.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “It will take a while to forget.”
“That’s understandable. You went through hell.”